It was going to be rugged from here on out, with luck the deciding factor—but the stakes were too high to back out now.
After the show—Don had made certain it was a boring melodrama—he took her to a night club where the show was exceptionally miserable.
When they got into the cab, Don whispered an address to the driver, and climbed in beside Jean.
“Clever show wasn’t it?” she smiled bravely, in the cab, throttling away from the club.
“Rotten,” he disagreed, “and you know it.” He smiled at her. She looked tired. After the sleep-inducing show and the boring night club acts, she was really bushed. Perfect!
The cab turned down Main Street and kept to the right as the cabbie searched for numbers in the semi-darkness left by the street light glare. Jeanie looked out the window, a frown darkening her even features. She was tired, but still alert. “This isn’t the way to my home.” Then annoyance and anger flooded her voice. “You aren’t taking me to your apartment again, are you, Don? I thought we’d talked this out, and you understood.”
“Good God, no, we aren’t going to my apartment!” he assured her, moving closer. Her face smoothed out again, and a smile broke through.
“I—I’m sorry, Don,” she said, patting his arm absently.
“Oh, that’s all right, Jeanie, that’s all right,” he smiled back at her. To himself he thought, That’s just peachy-keen, Jeanie, just peachy-keen.
Five minutes later they pulled up and the cabbie said, “This is the address you gave me, Mister. That’ll be a dollar and sixty-five cents.” There was bewilderment in his voice.
“Just right,” Don grinned, handing him a five dollar bill. “Keep it,” he added, opening the door and helping Jeanie out.
As the cab pulled away, Jeanie looked up at the totally dark and monstrous shadow before them.
“But this is Pomeroy’s,” she said, with confusion.
“Right-O!” said Don, leading her to the door.
He pulled out his key chain and opened the door. Leading her inside, he locked the door behind them.
“But—but—what?” Jeanie tried to fathom this thing. It was four in the morning. What were they doing here?
“This is after working hours!” Jeanie protested, trying to make a joke, in place of understanding.
“Oh no it isn’t!” Don replied, smiling cryptically.
They moved toward the front window.
At 4:15 A.M. the DayLights shone brightly in the front window of Pomeroy’s Department Store. In the window featuring the Comfee-
Snooze display.
It was a lucky thing no one was out late in those wee hours. Otherwise they might have seen the most revolutionary window display ever conceived.
Both Ends Of The Candle
FRANKLY, I WAS BEAT to the socks.
When Dorothy Candle opened the front door of her house, standing there with that wispy bit of fluff all ready to be ripped off, all ready to have herself tossed between the sheets—I knew I’d had it! Three months of dating Dot Candle and her daughter Valerie—without either one knowing I was romping in the hay with the other—had worn me to a fine edge of nervous hysteria.
“Are you going to stand out there all afternoon?” she asked, waving a slim arm toward the dim interior of the house. I shuffled in, like a sleepwalker.
“I’m glad you could come over today,” she said, after we’d both retired to the living room sofa. “I wasn’t sure you were coming when I called you.”
“Mmm,” I mmmed. She’d called me at the fraternity house, and threatened me with throwing herself off the University Administration Building if I didn’t tool over double-quick! Now, it seemed, she didn’t even remember her threats.
“You look tired,” Dot observed, stretching her arms above her head till the thin, wispy peignoir lifted clear of her upper thighs. I took slow notice.
Tired? Why the hell shouldn’t I be tired? Almost every day, for three months, no sooner had I left Dot Candle off with a kiss in front of the telephone company—where she worked night shift—than I’d had to drive crosstown to Stalling’s Department Store to pick up her daughter Val.
No sooner did I climb out of the feathers with one (who was no slouch, let me observe!), than I’d climb in with the other! Tired? You aren’t just masticating rice patties, brother!
“I bought this sleep outfit special for you,” Dot smiled showing her white, even teeth. She stood up, on tiptoe in her pink mules, and showed the thing off. She needn’t have bothered. I could see right through it.
“Nice,” I said, lackadaisically. I felt as though all the energy had been drained out of me by square needles inserted in my brain-pan.
This is the last time, so help me God, I thought. I’ll tell her today I’m calling it off between us.
Then, as I saw that look come into Dot Candle’s grey eyes, I added, Later I’ll tell her. Later.
Dorothy leaned over, taking my hand, placing it over the wispy, silky material covering her breasts. “I’m glad you could come, Wendell,” she breathed. “We do have fun, don’t we?”
“Yeah. Fun.” I’m afraid I wasn’t too frisky, right then, but I’d had to stay up all night to catch up for an exam. This thing with the Candle women was talking quite a bit of time. No wonder my eyes were banked with bloodshot lines. My step was getting faltery, and the coach had warned me my timing was way the hell off. If you think keeping two hardy women satisfied doesn’t soak it out of you—try it yourself some time!
I didn’t have long to worry about it, because in three seconds flat she was all over me, her lips hungry and searching. I found myself rising to her advances, even though I knew I’d be as limp as last week’s mashed potatoes afterwards.
“Wait a minute, honey,” she gasped, drawing away. “I’ll call you in a second.” She got off me, and moved away, saying, “I know your football coach wouldn’t approve, but mix yourself something from the bar. I’ll be ready in a minute.” She made a Burley-queen switch with her full hips, swirling the peignoir, licked her lips, and made a small animal noise.
Despite myself, I growled, “Rufff!” and she stuck out her tongue at me. She moved into the bedroom, wiggling like a Mixmaster.
I walked slowly and carefully to the bar. I’d found I had acquired a weave in my walk. I opened the bar and found the vodka. “A drink will steady me,” I told myself aloud. “Any orange juice around?” I yelled.
Her voice sifted out of the bathroom. “Ice box, naturally.”
I got the orange juice, mixed it with the vodka, and settled back down on the sofa with my Screwdriver. For the thousandth time since it had begun, I rolled this whole whacky situation through my weary mind.
I’d met Dorothy Candle three days before I met her gorgeous daughter Valerie. In my third year of college—without actually trying—I’d become a legend on campus. They called me “Minute Man” Asimov. The man with the split-second sex-drive.
It had been one of those completely screwball quirks of fate that brought Dot into my range.
I’d called New York, long distance, one morning. “Dad,” I said mournfully, “we’ve been slapped with an order to buy five new lab books for biology. It looks like it’s going to come to twenty-five dollars. I hate to ask you for it, Dad…what with my allowance all used up and everything…but you know how it is…”
I’d gotten the promise of twenty-five (which had taken care of those abysmal blackjack debts to the brothers in my fraternity)—and a little bonus. The bonus was the long distance operator on my end, who had called me back fifteen minutes after I’d hung up.
“I’m off-duty,” she’d said.
“Oh?” I’d answered, not quite getting the pitch. For all I knew she was a real pig, but her voice had been deep and throaty, like warm butter melting over warm butter. It made me feel warm and melty.
“I liked the sound of your voice,” she’d said. “I was lonely, and thought we might go out—have a drink.”
I’d taken her u
p on it, and that had been the start. We had gone to her house in the early afternoon, and the warm circle of her arms had enfolded me for the first time.
I’d been seeing Dot Candle steadily—almost every day—ever since. In the afternoons, while Val was at classes and the department store.
I’d met Val three days later than her mother. I’d spotted her in the stands and made the pitch. Her mother hadn’t told me her last name—even though we’d gotten very well acquainted—so I was amazed when I went to pick up Val for our first date, and found it was the same house I’d been visiting during the afternoons.
That night I’d found out “like mother, like daughter” was true, all too true.
The madness of the whole thing appealed to me. So, under wild pretenses that they musn’t reveal the name of the fellow they were seeing to anyone, especially not their family, I’d kept one from learning the truth about the other.
When I was through romping in the hay with Mommy, I’d drive her downtown in my beat-up Chevy; kiss her at the door of the phone company; and go crosstown to pick up her equally lovely daughter; kiss her at the door of the store, and drive back home for a romp in the hay, à la offspring.
It had been Paradise Regained the first month or so. Then it had slowly become the pace that clobbers! I was beat all the time, inefficient in my studies, worthless on the gridiron, hopeless at everything. I looked like the “during” in the “before and after” posters.
I’d promised myself I was going to call this thing off, bid these hot-blooded dolls fond adieu, and go back to sleep for three weeks, but every time they called, I came running. It was a real experience to shack up with a Candle girl!
As though my thought had been a signal, I heard the oozing oleo of Dot’s voice from the bedroom. “Ready, Wendell, honey.”
I put down what was left of the Screwdriver, and expanded my manly chest for the ordeal at hand. Even though I was bushed to the ground, the thought of her lying there made me hot right through my skin.
The ordeal at hand. That was just the phrase for it, too!
Dorothy Candle was stretched out on the bed. She was a well-preserved thirty-six. Not that you have to be preserved at thirty-six, but I’ve seen plenty of women who looked like empty sacks of alfalfa, at thirty-six.
Dot Candle was no empty sack. Her sack was well-filled. I just stood there in the bedroom doorway for a second…looking.
My eyeballs had a life of their own. They started at the feet and worked up toward the head of the bed. Long, trim legs that were beautifully molded and tapering in their nylon sheaths—just the way I liked her, with her hose still on! Thighs that were firm and round, the blood beating just beneath the surface of the pale skin; hips that swelled enticingly. The eyes paused only momentarily in annoyance at the tiniest bulge at the tummy.
The stomach did bulge a bit, but only charmingly enough to make the eyes go looking elsewhere up the frame to make it unimportant. They moved up, past the high, upthrust and inviting breasts, past the white, round throat—and stopped on the face, surrounded by a cloud of auburn hair spread out across the pillow.
Dot was a beautiful woman. Face unlined, full sensuous lips, hot eyes telling me there was a C.O.D. parcel waiting for my taking.
I stripped quickly, and sat on the edge of the bed. Despite myself, my breath was coming in gasps, and my hands were palm-moist and shaking. She came into my arms smoothly—like a well-oiled machine.
She brought her face up, and my lips found hers. It was almost peculiar the way I kissed Dot Candle. As though our lips were magnetized, and they had to meet.
She slid her eyes shut, and her body moved against mine.
I didn’t realize my hands were moving on her body, till I felt her shift slightly, and I wasn’t caressing the thin wispiness of the peignoir any more. I was touching the warm, moving flesh of her breast.
Suddenly I buried my face in the warm softness of her breasts, felt the rigid nipples harden under my lips. Her fingers were caught in my hair, pulling, and she was moaning in my ear, low: “Now! Now! What’re you waiting for? What? Come on!”
Dorothy Candle’s husband had peeled off into a six-foot trench three years after they’d been married, and what with Val to take care of, she’d been making do with what was handy ever since. She’d told me a dozen times I was the only one who could keep up with her.
I took a swan dive, and swam the length of her body. “Nice, nice, nice, nice…” she kept moaning all through it, tossing, and fighting, biting my ear.
At times like that, I was glad I’d had classes in sex hygiene.
I didn’t waste much time.
Afterward, I lay there panting, and swearing to myself: Never again! So help me God, never again!
This was exactly what I’d told myself I didn’t want to happen any more.
“That was fine, Wendell,” she murmured in my ear, playing with the ripples of my stomach muscles. “You’re the greatest. When will I see you again? Tomorrow?”
I slammed my eyes shut, and a little moan escaped between my clenched teeth. I was tuckered out a-plenty. Every bone in my body cried out for sleep. I knew I had two more classes that day, and a week’s worth of studying to catch up on before I’d even be back where I should have been. Not to mention Valerie—and her insatiable nature.
“Maybe,” I groaned weakly. This thing that had seemed so fantastically appealing—dating a mother and a daughter without one knowing of the other—was now a nightmare.
Somehow I got dressed, though I ached in every joint, and drove Dot down to the telephone building. I sweated all the way—a cappella.
I gave her the usual tender kiss at the door and drove off, half-asleep. I knew I had to pick up Val at Stalling’s in another hour. I got to quivering so badly I thought I’d pile up on a telephone pole.
If I thought the tremor would run down the wire and cold-cock Dot, I might have done it. But I knew it wouldn’t, so I did the next best thing. I stopped off at Terry’s Bar & Grill and had a quick one.
In fact, I had three quick ones. No sense taking chances. Then I piled back into the Chevy and went over to pick up Dorothy’s daughter, Valerie.
She came out the side door a few minutes before the rest of the girls. Even if she hadn’t, I would have spotted her. As tired as I was, the sight of those trim ankles, the tossing bob of her carroty hair…and those breasts! I felt my dormant pulse speed up from 33-1/3 to 45 to 78 rpm.
Those breasts!
Fantastic!
They were even higher than her mother’s, and they were at least a 39—but carried beautifully. They pointed right up. In fact, they were the kind of breasts that made a guy look over his shoulder to see where and what they were pointing at!
The rest of her matched. She was just over five feet six, with all the weight carried in the bust and rump, just the way I liked them. Zoftig! But not sloppy; Good Lord, no!
She hip-switched up to the car and leaned in my window. “Don’t I know you from someplace, Big Boy?” She smiled.
I usually had a wisecrack for her, but that had been three months before I’d gotten sent through a wringer.
“Mumpf,” I wheezed, my head flopping onto the window ledge.
“You don’t look so well, Wendell,” she said, concerned. “You sick?”
I nodded. “Uh-huh. Come on, get in.”
She slid in next to me, her thigh brushing my leg, and it felt like someone had stuck a live wire into me. “I know what’s the matter with you!” she cried. “And I know what you need to fix it up. Come on, let’s go right up to the house!”
I almost groaned and slid under the steering wheel, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ve got something for youuuuu.” She drew the word out suggestively, straightening back her shoulders, making her breasts push out against the fluffy cashmere of her sweater. “Let’s go.”
I could have fainted, right then, but somehow I got the car started and drove back to the house. Back to heaven’s be
d that had been the scene of so many heroic bouts between the Candles and me. I was groaning inside. Never again! I swore to myself. Never, never, never, never again.
So it was back to the house. This time with the daughter, who had her mother beat by a few decimal places. I was beginning to feel like a yo-yo with a pair of everlasting, never-wearing-down, amazingly Amazonian strings. My eyeballs felt watered-down, my legs were buckling from the knees.
That had been the roughest three months of my life—and today wasn’t making it any easier.
At the house, while Valerie was busy turning out all the lights but one dim one casting a faint glow, I made myself another quick Screwdriver.
She drew the Venetian blinds, put on Ravel’s Bolero, and changed in an instant from a reserved, bobby-soxed college co-ed, to a raging tigress.
First she ripped the clothes off me. “Off! Off!” she kept chortling, stripping me down.
“Take it easy with that sweater, will ya!” I yelled, as she yanked it off over my head. “It’s got my football letter on it!”
It was a ritual with her—this stripping me down—and I’d learned the hard way not to frustrate this peculiarity. Once she had me bone-naked, she started doing things.
The Bolero was just getting loud enough to hear, and she began moving. She’d take a short step toward me, and stop, moving her body slowly, running her hands up her body till they cupped her breasts—those magnificent breasts.
She’d take another step, and turn partially away from me. Then she’d run her smooth, slim fingers down to the hem of her skirt, and rub it up her legs, letting the full expanse of white thigh and marvelous leg show itself. Slow slow slow it would come up, and she’d let the fingertips rest lightly on the firm white skin of her thighs for a second. Then the skirt would come down. Cutting off the sights, just like that.
It always made me gasp.
I was petrified. I could feel my pulses pounding in my temples, my body beginning to sweat. So soon after a woman as hot and demanding as Dot, I was being stirred to animal heat by her daughter.
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